304    L.M.     J. Hart
Unsettledness. Job 7. 3; Ps. 55. 1

1 Lord, what a riddle is my soul!
  Alive when wounded, dead when whole!
  Fondly I flee from pain, yet ease
  Cannot content, nor pleasure please.

2 Thou hid’st thy face, my sins abound;
  World, flesh, and Satan all surround;
  Fain would I find my God, but fear
  The means, perhaps, may prove severe.

3 [If thou the least displeasure show,
  And bring my vileness to my view,
  Timorous and weak, I shrink and say,
  “Lord, keep thy chastening hand away.”

4 If reconciled I see thy face,
  Thy matchless mercy, boundless grace,
  O’ercome with bliss, I cry, “Remove
  That killing sight, I die with love.”]

5 My dear Redeemer, purge this dross;
  Teach me to hug and love the cross;
  Teach me thy chastening to sustain,
  Discern the love, and bear the pain.

6 Nor spare to make me clearly see
  The sorrows thou hast felt for me;
  If death must follow, I comply;
  Let me be sick with love, and die.